about Jim!
Really? She heard the demon’s contemptuous laughter. Stupid bitch.
She was still falling. Her vision swirled again, the darkness twisting around her. Jim was talking, his voice muffled as if he were talking and they were both underwater.
I never wanted this, she said to the demon.
Yes you did. Oh yes, you wanted it badly. And now you have it. You have everything.
Wholesale slaughter of the human race. Jim had talked about it as nothing more than a fleeting fantasy, but it was something that he didn’t quite understand about himself. Like a sexual fetish unrealized, nothing more. But how long ago was that?
I want out, she said. I’ve been used. Let me go. I would rather not be here. I would rather not be. I don’t want any part of this game.
How can you forget everything you and Jim have shared? You owe everything to him. Your emotions, your existence, your skills. You were made in his image, and he has made you again.
You’re not a demon. This is some kind of psychosis. I’ve gone insane.
But even that explanation was rather silly.
It was the only thing that made sense, in a world that didn’t make sense, in a world in which she was supposed to be dead. A world in which almost everyone was dead.
Okay, the voice said to her. I’m not a demon. You got me figured out. I’m just a little voice inside your head.
Wouldn’t it be better for her if the demon was real? What was the alternative? Maybe it would be better to just go with it.
Just go with it, the demon said. Yeah. I’m here, baby. Jump into my arms. Let me sing you David Bowie songs.
David Bowie. Why did that sound familiar?
She was falling. She couldn’t see, and she was falling.
Ground Control to Major Tom. Can you hear me, Major Tom?
She could watch the memories unfold again. Linda in the shopping mall, hugging her knees close to her chest. Weeping as her savior approached, a dark woman with a sniper rifle.
Then she could see something else. Entire fields littered with hunks of bloody meat. Human meat. As if a giant had picked up entire groups of people and ground them into a pulp in its fists and then dropped the pieces onto the ground. A bright red field of blood and skin. There was no sun. The plain of human waste did not have a sun hovering over it, and the sky was not dark.
You’re not real, she said. None of this is happening.
Oh, you’re such a rational young gal, ain’t cha?
You don’t sound like a demon. You’re a joke. Mocking me.
Love. The man she had loved stood over her, his hands messy with the blood of the body that did not belong to her.
“Am I a joke, darling?” Jim said.
Rose looked into his face again, her consciousness ripped away from the nightmare imagery. This man she had loved—despite how much she denied it, despite how much she told herself that love was not real, that people like her were incapable of such need—smeared a wet, sloppy mess of organs over Mina’s face.
Her face.
And she could feel him now, pressing against her thigh.
Falling again, and she physically reached for Jim, grabbed his shoulders, drawing him close. She wanted to tell him to stop her from falling.
He was inside her. Warm, strong. And she was dry. Completely dry. Worse: she could not feel anything except the pressure of his insertion.
A new flood of images washed over her.
Lying on a bed, wearing fishnets, black skirt, black eyeliner, purple lipstick, ink-black hair, forearms covered in bracelets. Who was this girl? Oddly familiar. Linda maybe?
Posters all over the room. Out-of-place rock stars, old rock stars, classic rock stars. Rose knew the girl on the bed wasn’t in the distant past because this was not a residual image, but a sort of real memory, as if she couldn’t possibly have made it up; this memory existed in someone’s memory, maybe Mina’s, maybe Linda’s, maybe it was the demon’s trick. It was almost impossible to decide what to do, what to think. She was used to processing information
Really? She heard the demon’s contemptuous laughter. Stupid bitch.
She was still falling. Her vision swirled again, the darkness twisting around her. Jim was talking, his voice muffled as if he were talking and they were both underwater.
I never wanted this, she said to the demon.
Yes you did. Oh yes, you wanted it badly. And now you have it. You have everything.
Wholesale slaughter of the human race. Jim had talked about it as nothing more than a fleeting fantasy, but it was something that he didn’t quite understand about himself. Like a sexual fetish unrealized, nothing more. But how long ago was that?
I want out, she said. I’ve been used. Let me go. I would rather not be here. I would rather not be. I don’t want any part of this game.
How can you forget everything you and Jim have shared? You owe everything to him. Your emotions, your existence, your skills. You were made in his image, and he has made you again.
You’re not a demon. This is some kind of psychosis. I’ve gone insane.
But even that explanation was rather silly.
It was the only thing that made sense, in a world that didn’t make sense, in a world in which she was supposed to be dead. A world in which almost everyone was dead.
Okay, the voice said to her. I’m not a demon. You got me figured out. I’m just a little voice inside your head.
Wouldn’t it be better for her if the demon was real? What was the alternative? Maybe it would be better to just go with it.
Just go with it, the demon said. Yeah. I’m here, baby. Jump into my arms. Let me sing you David Bowie songs.
David Bowie. Why did that sound familiar?
She was falling. She couldn’t see, and she was falling.
Ground Control to Major Tom. Can you hear me, Major Tom?
She could watch the memories unfold again. Linda in the shopping mall, hugging her knees close to her chest. Weeping as her savior approached, a dark woman with a sniper rifle.
Then she could see something else. Entire fields littered with hunks of bloody meat. Human meat. As if a giant had picked up entire groups of people and ground them into a pulp in its fists and then dropped the pieces onto the ground. A bright red field of blood and skin. There was no sun. The plain of human waste did not have a sun hovering over it, and the sky was not dark.
You’re not real, she said. None of this is happening.
Oh, you’re such a rational young gal, ain’t cha?
You don’t sound like a demon. You’re a joke. Mocking me.
Love. The man she had loved stood over her, his hands messy with the blood of the body that did not belong to her.
“Am I a joke, darling?” Jim said.
Rose looked into his face again, her consciousness ripped away from the nightmare imagery. This man she had loved—despite how much she denied it, despite how much she told herself that love was not real, that people like her were incapable of such need—smeared a wet, sloppy mess of organs over Mina’s face.
Her face.
And she could feel him now, pressing against her thigh.
Falling again, and she physically reached for Jim, grabbed his shoulders, drawing him close. She wanted to tell him to stop her from falling.
He was inside her. Warm, strong. And she was dry. Completely dry. Worse: she could not feel anything except the pressure of his insertion.
A new flood of images washed over her.
Lying on a bed, wearing fishnets, black skirt, black eyeliner, purple lipstick, ink-black hair, forearms covered in bracelets. Who was this girl? Oddly familiar. Linda maybe?
Posters all over the room. Out-of-place rock stars, old rock stars, classic rock stars. Rose knew the girl on the bed wasn’t in the distant past because this was not a residual image, but a sort of real memory, as if she couldn’t possibly have made it up; this memory existed in someone’s memory, maybe Mina’s, maybe Linda’s, maybe it was the demon’s trick. It was almost impossible to decide what to do, what to think. She was used to processing information
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